Letter to Magog

We have become what you've wished against,
you who hold the locks like an ammo bandalier
against the side of your thigh burning with lust.
You have asked us rude questions without
apologizing, and have told us that the
way out is through the locked door, the
useless door that without our keys means
nothing but another lock. We have reached
an impasse, stopped in desert tracks and
refusing to budge. I can stand until the
end of time, you, you need expediency
because you are withering every second under
the strain of the sun, and even the moonlight
scalds you with pearl rays. Do not be fooled
by your over-confidence, because things are
what they seem, and that is a truth.

There are many truths about us that we prefer
not to speak, like how we had you locked in
an ice cave since the beginning of time, you,
terrible Magog with fumes of gasoline for breath
and firestones for eyesockets. They freed you
by accident and such accidents are terrible mistakes.

You should never have been born. The umbilical
cord wrapped around your neck and choked the air
from your infantile lungs. We had forseen this,
and applauded with great glee as your hellspawn
mother slapped the Nazi doctor preforming the
ceremony. And now it is the Year of the Mind,
where you lose due to lack of memory. Wretched
Baal has choked on trash, and you will surely
burn by light.

Do not tell us how powerful you are; for we
have seen your influences in the forms of
Porsches, Corvettes, Timex watches, and the
cold razors of cash. It is not that you are
strong, but that the worst of us are weak.

Remember, my terrible friend,
that what you have done is of little genius,
cunning, or planning. Every society on Earth
has learned the nature of your craft, it's
blackness and false pyramid implanted in
the mind by your desperate slaves, the ones
that own HD televisions and work cushy jobs
while our brothers and sisters die in the streets
like prophets, like angels, like people who own
their own souls. They die in the streets
because your hospitals are not worthy to
be their graves, we die in the streets because
your houses are not worth the lumber they
are raised from. We drink, we screw, we
dance like mad kings upon the Earth and
will never sit upon your dunce stool,
cap in hand, looking only at one corner
of the ancient room.